Allegro
by Azure Raindrops
Summary: The meeting wasn't quite what she had in mind. According to Mariko, it was the piano's fault. One-shot on Mariko and Tobirama.


**A/N:** This is my first fanfic, so reviews would be loved (opinions; do you think Tobirama was OOC, etc...) I would appreciate constructive criticism; maybe there's something you didn't like about my writing style? On that note, this is a pretty short oneshot, and enjoy! :D

**Disclaimer: **I obviously do not own Naruto, as I do believe half of the characters currently dead would be revived permanently or still alive. Anyways, I do not own Mariko either; she belongs to the wonderful Cavallo Alato. :3

* * *

She had been awake for hours. As to exactly how long, she wasn't quite sure herself. The last thing she could recall was crashing into her bed at around eleven the previous night, and surprisingly, sleep had come easily; much more easily than she had imagined, had hoped.

Mariko groaned and buried her face in her pillow, shifting for what must have been the hundredth time. It was one of her body's odd quirks; if she woke up after three in the morning, the chances were that she couldn't fall back asleep. She inhaled, and let out her breath sharply, tears threatening to blur her vision – the air wasn't the damp yet crisp Hurricane atmosphere, and the smell of the room, the pillow; it was all wrong.

It had been what; a month already since she'd first set foot in Konoha? The tear finally broke free, a glistening trail sliding down her cheek and into the pillow. She wanted to go home. Everyone, regarded her like some spectacle – so what if she had white face paint? So what if she was from Hurricane?

Mariko took a deep, shuddering breath and flipped onto her back, staring up into the white ceiling. How she yearned for the old, simpler times. Even the people, the things she had once thought of as nuisances, she would gladly run to them if it meant getting out of the cursed marriage. Out of Konoha.

And as she stared at the ceiling, wishing that maybe, it would change into the familiar light brown of her Hurricanean home, it occurred to her that not all sounds were foreign. Mariko clearly remembered the light trill of the Japanese Bush Warbler – the spring bird, the _haru-dori_ . She recalled her sister pointing it out to her when she was but seven.

Quietly slipping out of her bed; it was only four in the morning, after all, Mariko slid on her sandals, wandering out of the house to pinpoint the source of the birdcall. The sky was still dark, and she shivered slightly as a breeze blew across the clearing; it was _chilly_.

Abruptly as it had begun, the call ended. As her heart fell, Mariko chided herself. _No bird would sing that early in the day_. It was probably just her imagination, she reasoned.

Tilting her head, she found that she stood just steps away from the entrance to the Senju main house. As she was about to leave, it hit her. It was _his _place. Her nose wrinkled. Yet, curiosity got the better of her, and she made her way inside.

What could go wrong?

As she would soon find out, a lot.

* * *

The house was spacious, Mariko noted, and surprisingly, gave her an odd sense of comfort. It certainly was something she hadn't noted in her misery of visiting the house the first time. Running a hand over the wall of the hall, she turned into the living room, froze, and promptly suppressed a squeal of delight.

It was a piano. A _piano_, out of all things. (She did wonder how she never saw it there before. Perhaps it was the same reason as previously mentioned?)

Smoothly gliding across the room, Mariko sat herself onto the piano bench. She pushed back the cover, and then it struck her – what if they heard her? Eventually deciding that the people in the house would not be up, and the living room would be too far for them to hear the music, the aqua-haired girl pressed a tentative finger to the middle C, and found that nothing happened; no one jumped out at her, or demanded her to stop. She ran a scale, and again, nothing. Letting out a sigh of relief and barely contained excitement, she pressed her lips together in concentration. Mariko quickly set herself to the task of practicing the song she had been working on before she'd left for Konoha.

It was a few minutes later that she heard the door open behind her. The realization that she'd been caught flew out the window as all the possibilities of what would happen to her flitted around her mind – would they be angry? Would they yell at her?

Mariko sat rigid, not unlike a deer in headlights, as the door clicked shut behind the newcomer.

"Oh. It's you. The Hurricane girl." And then, as if just noticing just how odd the scene was, he added, "Why are you in here?"

Tobirama. Senju Tobirama, the girl realized as she yelped and stood up so suddenly, she hit her left knee on the very instrument she'd been playing seconds earlier. He proceeded to surprise her as he somehow bothered, to dig up her name – she didn't think he was even listened as she introduced herself.

"Aokami Mariko, right?"

"Correct," she answered politely, to the best of her ability, as she fought to keep herself from fidgeting. (Why was she in here again? Why was her staring at her like that?)

Tobirama raised an eyebrow as he scrutinized her. "So, you do have a face beneath all that make-up."

At the remark, Mariko felt herself flush, her alarm replaced by anger. Make-up? Make-up was for girls; women, who wanted to appear "beautiful". The face paint she used, being called make-up? Her mind was screaming sacrilege. (Although it's basically the same thing, she chose to ignore that fact.) "It's not just make-up! It's _my _culture!"

"Then your culture's weird." He replied evenly. Tobirama had to step back to avoid the deft kick Mariko tried to deal to him.

"You're the one who's weird!"

"Whatever you say." As if sensing he was treading on dangerous ground, Tobirama opted to change the topic. "So, what can you play?" He gestured vaguely at the sleek black piano, before casually leaning on top of it, and elbow propping himself up.

Mariko shrugged. "Whatever I want to play," she answered, purposely adopting the same flat voice, even if it was just to irk him. (Well, at least she hoped it would.) Despite the fact that she tried to be civil with the residents of Konoha, she just couldn't seem to recall her lessons in etiquette whenever she was around_ him_.

She was instantly put to shame as Tobirama, with impeccable manners, she might add, stood upright, gestured vaguely at a few chairs on the opposite side of the room, and asked her if she would like a seat. Mariko shook her head as she muttered, "I'll be fine."

As she turned to flee back to the safety of her place, she paused when the Senju snorted and added after her receding form, "You know, next time you feel like dropping by at _four in the morning_, you could notify us."

Mariko could've sworn that directly after, she heard him comment, "You know, you not such a sore sight beneath all the make-up either." (But then again, it could've just been her imagination.) What she did know, however, was that she couldn't get that single phrase out of her head for the rest of the day.


End file.
